HOW TO TRAVEL THE WORLD FOR FREE

One Man, 150 Days, Eleven Countries, No Money!

By MICHAEL WIGGE

Skyhorse Publishing

Copyright © 2013 Michael Wigge
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62636-031-0

Contents

About the Book…………………………………………………….ix1. Even Basic Needs Aren’t Free (Berlin to Antwerp)…………………..12. All Hands Below Deck (Antwerp to Montreal)………………………..113. True North, Land of the Free (Montreal to Niagara)…………………174. Go West, Young Man (Cleveland to New Mexico)………………………275. All-American Gigolo (Albuquerque)………………………………..396. No Gifts in the Wild West (Las Vegas)…………………………….457. Everybody Has a Dream (Los Angeles)………………………………578. Advanced Pillow Fighting (San Francisco)………………………….659. No Trouble in Paradise (Hawaii)………………………………….7510. On the Run from Dr. Luck (Costa Rica to Panama)…………………..9111. Katarina’s Catamaran (Colombia)…………………………………9912. My Life as a Peruvian (Peru to Bolivia)………………………….10513. A Kingdom for a Guinea Pig (Bolivia)…………………………….11914. The Madman (Chile)…………………………………………….12515. Ümit Saves the Day (Buenos Aires to Tierra del Fuego)……………..13116. The End of the World (Antarctica)……………………………….141About the Author…………………………………………………..153

CHAPTER 1

EVEN BASIC NEEDSAREN’T FREE

It is the 21st of June, which means it is officially the summer solstice,and the longest day of the year. I can actually feel this all over mybody. For more than three hours, I have been standing at a freewayexit trying to continue my journey toward Cologne. Thinking of the25,000 miles I still have yet to cover, it’s hard to imagine that fivemonths from now I will actually set foot in Antarctica—the end ofthe world, as my friends say—without having a single penny in mypocket.

It may be the longest day of the year, but it also feels like the hottestone, and that, plus the heavy bag on my back, make the sweat pourdown my overheated body like a nasty waterfall. The sun is laughingat me; the cars that pass by also, somehow, snicker with amusement—I’mhitchhiking with a sign on my back that reads The End of theWorld! so that probably has something to do with it. But none of thisbothers me since my mind is already far, far away in Antarctica.

At some point, what I count as the 2,420th car whooshes pastme. You see, I have noted that eleven cars drive past me about everyminute, which totals to 2,420 cars in exactly 220 minutes—amazinghow the mind can amuse itself in the heat. If one is optimistic enoughto believe what Lonely Planet says about Germany being a hitchhiker-friendlycountry, then one will likely wait for as long as I have beenwaiting.

Discouraged and soaked with my own perspiration, my Antarcticvisions completely dashed, I am just about to give up and call it a daywhen a red van pulls up. The driver’s side window rolls down and agrumbling voice calls out, “Need a ride?”

Arndt and Marius are returning from a convention of Leftists inBerlin. I now sit in the backseat telling them about my crazy plan ofreaching Antarctica without a single cent in my pocket. However, as Italk, I realize that I am in desperate need of relief—after being in thesun all day, you’d think that I would be severely dehydrated, not needingto relieve excess liquids, but my bladder is calling and Marius iskind enough to make a pit stop in my honor. I run as fast as I can tothe public toilet, only to be blocked by a gate with a sign that reads:50 CENTS.

Before starting this trip, I had thought of all the possible scenariosthat might require money and how to get around them, but I have toadmit that this is one I didn’t take into consideration at all. Somethinglike this should be free anyway, shouldn’t it? Desperate, I try charmingthe toilet attendant—not as easy a task as it may sound. I tell her thatI have no money, that this is an emergency, and if she could just find itin her heart to let me pass through just this once, just this one time, myappreciation would be boundless.

“Get a job,” is her response.

Knowing that there is no way to convince her, I instead find a fewnice bushes around the corner. When I get back to the van, I tell Arndtand Marius about my little … situation. They are both fired up afterthat Leftist convention and promptly compare my problem to that ofsociety’s class struggles. “You wouldn’t find anything like this in socialism!”rants Marius. He’s probably right, actually. Maybe socialism isn’tso bad after all …

Finally, we reach the first stop on my trip: Cologne, the city inwhich I lived and worked for six years. From here, the plan is to travelto Belgium, where a container ship is waiting to take me across toCanada. Since the ship won’t set sail for five days, I can make use of thistime to visit some old friends. However, I’m not completely withoutulterior motives: I’m hoping to have a free place to crash for the nextfew nights.

My friend Hardy lives with his girlfriend in a perfectly pleasantgarden bungalow near the edge of the city, and when I ring his doorbell,I am greeted warmly and immediately offered a comfy couch tostay on—an offer I swiftly accept. As I tell him about my first day, mystomach starts to audibly growl, but Hardy’s refrigerator is as empty asmy stomach.

We both start wondering where we can get something to eat atthis late hour. Now, luckily, some supermarkets in Cologne are stillopen in the late evening, which is a simple solution if you have money.However, I’m not traveling with any whatsoever, and don’t want to asktoo much of Hardy’s hospitality, so I have another idea: Dumpster divingit is, then.

A humble act of foraging, which apparently originated in theUnited States, Dumpster diving is new to Germany and involves getting—quiteliterally—down and dirty as you search for food in a supermarket’sDumpsters. The food is often perfectly edible, but isn’tsellable either due to its expiration date or its not-entirely-appetizingappearance.

So I take the local train downtown, which is free for me but whichstill requires a ticket. (Like in many German cities, public transportationin Cologne allows students and workers with a monthly ticket totake another person along on their pass free of charge, but only afterseven in the evening.) Since most stores in the city are closed by now,it will be the perfect time for my … shopping expedition. I set off forthe largest supermarket near the city’s park, almost more curious thanhungry to see if Dumpster diving is possible here in Cologne.

Tiptoeing like a burglar and armed with just a flashlight and someplastic bags, I sneak around the building and stand in front of the gateby the supermarket’s courtyard. From there I can see the Dumpsters,and, motivated by my growling tummy, I somehow manage to climbover the six-foot-tall fence. I flash the light into the first Dumpster andI nearly die of terror: the beam lands directly onto the face of a man.

“Hey, wait your turn!” he snaps.

I eventually learn that this man is named Peter and that he studiessocial work in Cologne. For years now he has been looking for food inthis manner—not because of a shortage of money but because of hisideological refusal of consumption.

“Freeganism comes from the word free and means free of cost—muchin the same way that veganism and vegan relate,” explains Peteras he picks out his culinary treasures. “There’s a great Freegan scenehere in Cologne. We meet regularly and cook together.” Peter gets bywith 200 euros a month, which is mainly for health insurance. He getshis food from Dumpsters and lives in a construction trailer.

After filling his backpack, Peter lets me have my way with theDumpster. As I fill my bags with yogurt, sausage, bread, cheese, milk,and even some gummy bears, Peter explains to me that, unlike in othercountries, Dumpster diving is actually illegal in Germany. “Even garbagehas an owner in this country,” he says, “so legally and technically,what we are engaged in here is good old-fashioned theft. A few yearsago, a woman in Cologne was sentenced to do social work, all becauseshe took yogurt from a supermarket Dumpster.”

It turns out to be a lucky night for Peter and me, meaning we don’tget caught. Even Hardy is astonished when I surprise him with twoplastic bags full of food.

The next day, I decide it’s time to go to work. I stand in the city’sbusiest pedestrian area holding a rather enticing handmade sign reading:A BUTLER FOR A TRAIN TICKET. In order to make my offer more attractive,I’m dressed up as a proper English butler with a bow tie, white shirt withstarched collar, button-down vest, black trousers, and white gloves, allof which I purchased from a second-hand shop (for just fifteen euros!)before leaving Berlin. Who could resist my impeccable butlership?

I expected more of a reaction—any kind of reaction—from thepeople of Cologne, but the residents appear to be no longer easilyamused, thanks to all the hidden-camera antics and wacky street performersthat have begun to take root in the city. After an hour with nosuccess, I decide to take control of the situation and address the passersbydirectly.

“A train ticket to Belgium in exchange for the best butler in theworld!” I confidently exclaim to an old lady who crosses my path, bowingslightly to demonstrate my charm.

“I am in no mood for a circus today!” she retorts, adding a few armgestures for emphasis.

The embarrassing confrontations continue until I approach one ofthe more interesting-looking citizens of Cologne, a man I soon learnis named Harold, who is forty-nine years old, but eternally young atheart. On his suntanned skin he wears a white, open, laced-up vesttucked into tight pants, a look that is finished off neatly with a pair ofsnakeskin boots. His thinning blond hair is long and partly covered bya headband. He likes my idea, and for the rest of the day, books me ashis personal butler.

When we arrive at his place, the first thing I see is a red Ferrariparked in front of his house—or, to put it better, in front of his property.Harold tells me that he bought the car in the nineties for 400,000Deutschmarks (DM), the old currency of Germany. Now, I am not acar fanatic by any means, but I’m still impressed with an actual Ferrari.

Harold quickly thrusts a sponge and cloth into my hand saying,”Now wash the car until it’s spick-and-span!” Dutifully, I start rubbingthe rim to make it shine, which sends Harold into a complete panic.

“Be careful! Ferraris have been damaged from being cleaned in thewrong way! Do it gently! Never, ever on the same spot for too long!”Harold knows exactly what he wants; hopefully, I won’t get sued. Abutler’s life must be full of incalculable risks.

Two hours later Harold takes me to his garage, which is actually aseparate portion of a public parking lot. In the garage there are many,many more luxury vehicles: shiny Lamborghinis, gleaming Corvettes,majestic Cadillacs … am I dreaming, or have I, in fact, hooked upwith the Russian Mafia?

Harold selects a Cadillac convertible from the seventies that mustbe at least sixteen feet long. I then chauffeur him through downtownCologne, despite the challenge of making turns with this gigantic car.After successfully parking the Cadillac, we dine at a fancy restaurant… or, to be more accurate, Harold dines while I keep replenishing hiswine glass. Again and again during the course of the evening, variouswomen approach our table. Harold seems to attract a certain type ofwoman—the kind who is even willing to kiss his eccentric boots for abit of his attention.

But they look right through me. I continue pouring wine for Harold.

The remainder of my day as Harold’s butler passes quite amusingly.Unfortunately, I never do find out how Harold has made his vastfortune. He tells me that he has no money, but lives only from objectsof value. The twenty sports cars he has parked in his garage have alreadyassured me of this. After finishing my duties, Harold invites meto Marbella, Spain, for the coming week, and adds a cryptic tag: “Youcould marry well there.”

Though I’m curious to know what he means, I know it is time topress on. I politely decline his intriguing invitation and receive fifty-fiveeuros as my pay: exactly enough money for a ticket to Antwerp,Belgium. This means that I will be able to make my free passage toCanada, something that was more difficult to figure out how to dothan I had anticipated.

The European Union not only discourages but prohibits anyone’sromantic notions of becoming a spontaneous sailor to get a free rideacross the ocean. Insurance regulations and necessary sailor certificatespretty much make a spontaneous cargo ship ride as an unauthorizedsailor very unlikely nowadays.

I know a solid man by the name of Peter Doehle whose shippingcompany rather enterprisingly offers a certain brand of tourists the optionof traveling on a container ship. Since he considers my projectquite exciting, he is allowing me to travel from Antwerp to Canada freeof cost.

Before I get on the train to Belgium, I decide to save my fifty-fiveeuros for later and don’t buy a ticket. My brilliant plan is to hide inthe rest-room for the entire trip. I can already visualize myself triumphantlydisembarking from the train in Antwerp with the money stillin my pocket, not having spent a single cent. While hiding in the toilet,I smile and congratulate myself on my genius plan, and I hear the franticknocking on the door—it’s the conductor. I not only have to paythe normal fare but also a penalty fee to boot, meaning that I arrive inBrussels with only one euro left.

Everything up to now has been going so well, but then I tried to betoo clever. As a result, I’m now stuck here in Brussels with no idea howto get to Antwerp. My backpack feels even heavier on my burdenedshoulders. I start panicking but I suddenly think of a solution: I willboard the next train to Antwerp and use the blind-spot trick.

Yes, the blind-spot trick.

When I board, I immediately head to the last compartment, whichis only about ten by twelve feet and has only six folding seats. The bicyclesare usually kept here in most of the local trains. I put my backpackin the left corner that faces the other compartments, and standmotionless in the right corner facing the same direction. Normally,the conductors only glance through the window of this compartment’sdoor, and if they don’t see anyone, they move on, not thinking to checkthe blind spots. Ladies and gentlemen: the blind-spot trick. I spend therest of the journey tensely pushed up against the right corner of thecompartment. Suddenly, the door opens and I panic: busted again! Butit’s not the conductor, or any sort of train official, just a waiter comingthrough with the coffee cart.

The young man observes me standing there scrunched up in thecorner. We both stand there looking at each other for a few secondswithout saying a word.

I keep looking at him. He looks right back at me. I think we’resaying things with our minds, but I can’t be too sure.

I nonchalantly try to act as if I’m just standing there to gaze outof the window; I even prop my chin up on my fist and manage a smallsmile. The young waiter pushes his cart to the other side of the compartmentand proceeds to fix himself some lemonade while keeping hiseyes on me—he knows exactly what’s going on. I continue staring outthe window with an expression of wonder, though I’m not paying a bitof attention to the scenery.

After a few minutes, the waiter pushes the cart back out of thecompartment, barely hiding a smile. I arrive in Antwerp both overjoyedby the success and utterly exhausted from holding myself in thatposition for almost an hour.

My next challenge is to find some food. What if I approach, say,five different shops, and simply explain to them that I am traveling tothe end of the world without any money and ask if they would donatesome food for my cause? How many of them will say yes? It’s worth atry. So I first approach a nice café run by a young man. He thinks myadventure sounds great and offers me a coffee and a muffin. The LatinAmerican music playing in the background only increases my anticipationfor traveling throughout South America. I then go to a hotelwhere they let me refill my two-liter bottle without any trouble. Atmy next stop, a fish store, the saleswoman refuses to give me any foodsince her boss isn’t there to make the decision. The fourth place I try is abakery, where the employees are very generous: slices of quiche, variousbuns, some bread, and pastries are packed up and handed to me. Thethree employees have fun debating which one of them will accompanyme on my trip. Finally, a fruit vendor gives me two apples. With fourout of five of my requests met with success, I’m left feeling hopefulabout the rest of my journey.

CHAPTER 2

ALL HANDSBELOW DECK

Anxtwerp’s harbor is about sixteen miles long and quite difficult toexplore on foot; there are trucks driving around and numerouscranes incessantly loading and unloading the huge container ships thatcome from all over the world. Everything must be done quickly, asthere’s no time to lose. After much searching, I finally find my ship andI’m immediately filled with a sense of adventure.

The MS Valentina is 194 yards long and loaded with 1,800 containers.Upon entering the ship, I am politely greeted by a Filipino steward:”Hello, Mr. Wigge.” He introduces himself as Julius and brings me tomy cabin. To my astonishment, he insists on carrying my backpackalthough it’s quite heavy and almost as big as he is. I’ll be spending thenext twelve days in a comfortable sleeping cabin that includes a smallprivate lounge with a stereo system, a satellite television with over 900channels, and a minibar. Julius tells me that I can always reach him onthe ship’s phone system—”Extension 148!”—then politely takes hisleave. I sit on my bed feeling unbelievably happy, for I had never expectedto find such luxury on a container ship.

I meet Julius again while I’m having a look around the ship, and hetells me that meals are at eight o’clock in the morning, noon, and fivein the evening, but that it’s not a problem if I’m a little late. Near thedining hall is a fitness area, and beyond that is the ship’s cinema, stockedwith plenty of DVDs. Julius proudly goes over everything, explaining,”Our passengers should happy!” I realize that they must have bookedme as tourist and not as a helper—as was discussed on the phone—butI certainly am not going to be the one to complain. Thus, my journeyacross the Atlantic will be made in unexpected comfort.
(Continues…)Excerpted from HOW TO TRAVEL THE WORLD FOR FREE by MICHAEL WIGGE. Copyright © 2013 Michael Wigge. Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
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